


cracks in our foundation

by kittpurrson



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Photographer, Evakteket Challenge, Friends to Lovers, London, M/M, Makeup, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittpurrson/pseuds/kittpurrson
Summary: “You know, like a thousand years ago, men used to wear makeup?” Even asks, as Isak gapes at himself.He can’t really explain how strange it is to see himself like this.[For the Evakteket Challenge.]





	cracks in our foundation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imminentinertia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imminentinertia/gifts).



> Happy 6 months, Evakteket! Argh, time has flown so fast.
> 
> As you may have guessed, this is my answer to our little #evakteket challenge, for which my prompt was friends to lovers, different city au, makeup.
> 
> All the thanks to junkshop-disco for cheerleading, and for helping me name this. Title is from my lovely London fave Kate Nash.
> 
> Immy, babe, this one's for you.

_Then_

It all starts on a chilly February night after a long cold snap in London, when Even asks him for a favour. Isak is out on the balcony of Even’s flat, smoking Even’s weed, and drinking Even’s shitty British beer.

He’s also really, really in love with him, so he doesn’t say no when he should.

“Eskild said you might be interested,” Even says, and he sounds a little bit nervous but Isak really doesn’t see why. Even has never asked him for anything he doesn’t already know Isak would be happy to give.

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me more about it.”

Even does and Isak hardly listens. Even is standing very close for warmth, and drawing Isak’s joint to his own mouth as he speaks.

He’s pretty sure he’s been in love with Even, boyfriends be damned, ever since the day he moved into Eskild’s cramped flat in Camberwell and found a fellow Norwegian cooking eggs on the tiny stovetop. Moving to London was one of the most impulsive decisions Isak ever made in his life--sick of the same old shit in Oslo, he had simply said _fuck it_ and _yes_ the next time Eskild told him how cool it would be if Isak just packed up and joined him, far far away from the bad memories for a fresh start.

Eskild, the king of picking up strays, had apparently found Even at the Little Yellow Cafe: looking nostalgic over a Kvikk Lunsj with a fancy camera in his hand. And so, when Isak moved in, there he was. A ready-made new friend with a sunshiney smile, who Isak had absolutely no defenses prepared against. By the time he’d actually managed to get his boring fucking admin job at the Norwegian chamber of commerce and start work, he was already ass-backwards and upside-down crazy about his second best friend in this entire city, like a pathetic fucking idiot.

Anyway, Even asks for a favour, and Isak says yes before he knows what it will entail.

Which is why, on a Sunday morning, instead of rolling out of bed and into the Turkish shop down the street for flaky almond pastries, he’s freezing his ass off in some Shoreditch “creative space” that he’s pretty sure is just an old warehouse with a hipster management team.

In hindsight, he’s starting to think it was a bad idea.

“What’s that?” Isak asks, looking dubiously at the sweet-smelling cream Even is painting on his face.

“This is primer. It’s for your pores,” Even says, smoothing it out over Isak’s cheeks with his fingers. Isak’s 22, but he feels like a teenager again as Even touches him. He’s sweating a little despite the cold, awkward as fuck, and suddenly very aware of the spot budding on his greasy chin.

“My pores? What’s wrong with them?”

Isak can’t help it. He hasn’t had coffee, yet, and he can’t help but feel grumpy.

“Nothing’s wrong with them,” Even laughs, in the most blatant example of a lie. “This is just like… a blank canvas. I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Are you comfortable?” Even asks.

And Even is sat on a stool next to Isak’s rickety chair, close enough that Isak can hear him breath even as he feels Even’s fingers on his face. Close enough that even with Isak’s eyes closed, he sees every little movement Even makes in each waft of the cheap Tesco bodywash he uses.

Comfortable isn’t the word Isak would use, but he likes the feeling of Even touching him this carefully, so he doesn’t say it.

“Feels nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak says with a shiver, as Even uncaps something else, begins daubing it onto Isak’s face with a soft brush. “It’s a weird feeling. Like wearing sun cream.”

He wrinkles his nose as Even paints a stripe down it, and Even laughs.

“You can watch, if you want. You don’t have to keep your eyes closed.”

Isak opens his eyes.

-

_Now_

The thing is, Isak really wants to go to Even’s show.

He’s telling himself that even as he stands on the Tube, clutching nervously at some flowers from the corner shop by his flat. He wants to go to the show, and he _is_ going to Even’s show--that’s the one thing that could get him on the Central line on a Saturday evening, headed for the ‘up and coming’ end of Bethnal Green.

Hipster central, basically.

But as much as he wants to go to Even’s show, there’s also a part of him that wants to get out every time the train door opens and another bunch of drunk Londoners squash into the carriage. It isn’t Even’s fault Isak is in love with him, but Isak blames him for the fact that it’s now out in the open.

He’s been avoiding Even since the photoshoot--every time Even’s been to the flat, he’s ‘remembered’ a Skype date with Jonas or a need to pop out to the shop for some Fanta. It’s not even that it hurts to see him, or anything, because Isak is used to having unrequited crushes on his friends (see: Jonas) and Even’s been at the flat nonstop since Isak came to London.

It’s that Isak is really fucking embarrassed to have worn his heart on his sleeve, and he doesn’t know how to react to Even now it’s in the open.

His heart tells him to keep trying. To keep loving. Because he doesn’t want to stop, and it’s Even--there’s no way he can stop if he tries so he just…

He has to make things normal again.

That annoying little thing called Isak’s heart is the reason he’s on this godforsaken train, pressed up against the curved wall of the doors in the hope that the flowers don’t get too crushed. With every text message Even has sent, every hopeful _maybe I’ll see you there_ , Isak has felt his resolve weaken. Even had looked so happy when Isak agreed to come to this thing, that Isak couldn’t bring himself to disappoint him. The plan to fake a headache or a change of plans had flown right out of the window.

He wonders what the photographs will look like.

-

_Then_

“You know, like a thousand years ago, men used to wear makeup?” Even asks, as Isak gapes at himself.

He can’t really explain how strange it is to see himself like this. It’s like--some weird, horror movie CGI or something. His skin looks too smooth, too pale. Isak’s not even sure Even has used the right colour, because Isak’s skin looks waxy, almost--unreal.

He doesn’t say that, though.

Even has finished the foundation now, apparently, and is moving on to something else. When Isak frowns, Even makes a little _tsk_ noise at him.

“Really?” Isak says, as Even rifles through a makeup bag. He pulls out a little tube with a victorious flourish.

Probably Sonja’s, Isak thinks. The bag is worn and frayed, looks a million years old, but is probably what she’d call ‘vintage’. Even’s ex may have gone back to Norway last year, but the vestiges of her are still everywhere around Even’s room.

Like, even the concealer (?) going under Isak’s eyes right now probably belonged to her. Isak tries not to think about that.

“Like the Romans. When they went bald they used to paint their heads to look like hair.” Even says, and Isak raises an eyebrow.

“That sounds… convincing.”

Even pulls back just to pull a face, and Isak can’t help but smile.

“Although…”

“What?”

“I was just thinking, it’s a shame we can’t paint your hair,” Even says, and pushes an errant curl from Isak’s face.

It’s terribly intimate--so much so that Isak overreacts horribly, grimacing as he leans away.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Maybe some glitter, though?” Even jokes, but there’s a curious gleam in his eyes, like he really is picturing it.

Isak shakes his head.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Anyway, like, Alexander the Great wore makeup, and he was a warrior and stuff,” Even says eventually. He waves another tube in front of Isak’s face, now--eyeliner, according to the label. “Close your eyes again?”

Isak does. He feels Even’s breath on him again as he gets closer, starts to paint a line above Isak’s eyelashes with a steady hand. He swears, then dabs at Isak’s eye with a wet cloth, and then he’s drawing again, breaths annoyingly even.

“I didn’t know you liked history,” Isak says, just to stop focusing on the sensation. And yet--it’s a bad idea, because he feels as much as hears Even’s answering hum.

“Yeah. Eskild was telling me all about it, and I just thought it was so interesting.”

“That’s why you’re doing this?”

“Well, I was already planning the series when we talked about it, but yeah, that’s what made me think of this one.”

Honestly, Isak hadn’t even realised it was a series, but that makes sense. Of course Even wouldn’t be taking photos of him and him alone.

Isak wishes he remembered more of Even’s explanation for this photoshoot. What the idea was behind the series. But he doesn’t.

“What did Eskild say? About me?” He asks, instead of asking about the others. He’s not sure if he wants to know if Even did this with then. If it’s always this close.

“Just that it was something you’d talked about, once,” Even says, and Isak remembers, suddenly, that he _did_ talk to Eskild about this once, when he was young and insecure and half in the closet. About not being a stereotype in mascara and tights.

Isak still regrets what he said. He hopes Even doesn’t know about it.

 -

  _Now_

 Isak isn’t the only person walking the streets of Bethnal Green, but he’s the only boy holding flowers. He pulls his coat tight around himself as he passes a pub, half glad that it isn’t raining but half wishing it was as he has to pass through a circle of middle-aged men smoking outside, looking down at him with his pathetic bouquet with pity.

“Good luck, mate!” One of them says him, and Isak hunches his shoulders.

"Go get 'er," another all but shouts, clamping a meaty hand down on Isak's shoulder.

They're completely shitfaced ("mortal", as the girls on Eskild's new favourite show would say), West Ham shirts straining across their bellies, and Isak wonders, for a second, how they'd react if he said  _actually, they're for the man I love._

Maybe they'd be just as supportive.

 _Maybe not_ , Isak thinks as they part to let him squeeze through, hoping that the smell of the smoke won't taint the bouquet in his arms. He hears them breaking into song as he walks away, some drinking song about bubbles that fade and die.

He tries not to take it as a bad omen.

 -

  _Then_

 “Pick a colour,” Even says.

Isak is staring at himself in the mirror, still. Black-rimmed eyes that remind him of being sixteen and seeing Eva try to act fine when things between her and Jonas were rough. Of seeing her cry, and how the thick lines ran down her face.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Isak says, when Even prods him. “Aren’t you the artist?”

“Isak,” Even pulls a serious face, now. “You can’t tell me you don’t have an opinion.”

Isak frowns, because he really doesn’t. The palette on the wooden table in front of him has too many options--dusky pinks and metallic greens and--somehow--the overwhelming smell of synthetic peach.

How does Even expect him to have a preference on eyeshadow colours, he wonders?

It’s not like Isak has ever thought about it before. Any of it--the makeup, the photos, whatever. It’s always been firmly in a box in his head marked ‘nope’, even after his numerous talks with Eskild.

This is not a choice he would make for himself. But for Even...

“The gold is kind of nice,” he concedes, and Even smiles.

“Gold it is. Close your eyes?”

Even smears it onto Isak’s eyelids with his fingers, cursing again as he smudges the eyeliner and has to go back over the lines.

“What else are you going to do?” Isak asks, once the ordeal is finally over, and Even is wiping his fingers on some wet cloths.

Even studies him for a moment, then nods. Decisively.

“Eskild taught me how to contour.”

“Oh, God.”

Isak has seen Ru Paul’s Drag Race, okay. Only once, but enough to know what that means.

“Too scary?”

“Too… ugh." He grimaces. "Fuck, no.”

“It’s just like, lines on your cheeks,” Even protests. “To make them look skinnier or something.”

“Are you saying I have fat cheeks?”

Isak doesn’t want his face to be contoured. Somehow that feels like the final straw.

“No!”

Even laughs, delighted by Isak’s reaction.

He reaches for a pink pot, instead, the word BLUSH written across it in swirling letters.

Isak swallows.

 -

_Now_

The girl at the door has a pierced septum and looks like she could eat Isak alive. The electric blue hair, the tattoos, the all-black ensemble… She looks him up and down, taking in the shirt and dark jeans combination bought entirely from H&M, and then lingers on the blooms in Isak’s hands.

And she smiles.

“Alright?” She says then, her soft Welsh accent surprising him. “You’re here for Even?”

Isak can only nod before she’s ushering him inside, and he finds himself in a dark space, some nondescript bassline playing through crackling speakers.

The only things lit up are the photographs, and--

Isak stops at one of Eskild. At a whole row of Eskilds. Eskild in his kimono brushing his teeth next to Lito, his ex, and sleeping on Lito’s shoulder on the sofa as Lito shushes the camera.

He looks so young and soft, that Isak’s heart swoops, just a little bit.

Isak doesn’t know when Even took these, but the final picture shows Eskild in the kitchen, half facing the camera as he dances--and Isak remembers this day, remembers Eskild and Even dancing, because dancing was the only thing that made Eskild smile in the post Lito days.

Isak doesn’t know what the photographs are meant to say, but they warm his heart.

-

  _Then_

 “So, you know a lot about this?” Isak asks, when Even finally finished painting his mouth.

It’s the worst fucking part, to be honest. Even’s thumb smudging away pink from his lips, studying them like they’re a damn work of art.

Isak has never been particularly conscious of his lips before, except for that time Elias made some comment about them being thin. Not great for dick sucking, Elias had said.

Turns out, the joke was on him.

“Makeup?” Even laughs. “Fuck, not really.”

“You could have asked Eskild to help,” Isak says. “He’s been trying to make me over forever.”

“Yeah, but,” Even hesitates, then: “I didn’t want it to be too perfect.”

Isak nods, like he understands. But he doesn’t.

Perfect sounds fine to him, but this isn’t really his thing, the art stuff. He wouldn’t be anywhere near this sort of thing if Even hadn’t asked him… but Even had approached him. Asked Isak, specifically.

Which, actually, is his other question.

“Why me?”

“Why not you?” Even asks, raising an eyebrow.

Isak gestures down at himself--the plain white t-shirt, the hoodie. It’s not exactly high fashion.

“I mean, why not ask an actual model?”

Even smiles, like Isak has finally asked the right thing. On anyone else, Isak might find the look condescending.

“They wear makeup all the time. And male models… well, they’re not as influenced by like, ideas about masculinity and male beauty, you know?”

 _Masculinity and male beauty?_ What is that supposed to mean?

“And I am?” Isak asks, curious.

“Well, are you comfortable?”

“What do you mean?”

Even sits back, and gestures to the mirror.

In it, Mirror Isak blinks back at him, with dark eyelashes and shimmering gold across his lids. He’s never paid quite this much attention to his eyes before, but they look huge like this.

It doesn’t look like him at all, actually, and Isak doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the mask it presents, the odd prettiness, the strange delicacy. For all that Even’s makeup skills aren’t perfect, this feels far too much like pretending to be.

Isak wonders if other men feel this way. Probably not, if Eskild is anything to go by.

“Looking at yourself in the mirror, is it uncomfortable to see?”

“Yeah. Kind of,” Isak admits, and Even swoops in, brushes the curve of his cheek with glitter.

Actual pink fucking glitter.

Still: Isak shivers at the touch.

“Well, that’s why I asked you,” Even says, voice soft.

Isak meets his eyes, and feels his heart begin to race.

 _Oh_.

 -

_Now_

Isak is standing in front of a picture of himself, and he doesn’t recognize the person looking back.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, but an indeterminable stream of art hipsters come and stand beside him, sometimes looking between him and the photographs in comprehension. Others talk about ‘the subject’ as if he’s not even there--or about Even, which is worse.

Only one person tries to speak to him, and Isak mostly wishes he hadn’t. A skinny man in ripped jeans looks him up and down, before a sly smile twists his mouth.

“Beautiful pictures,” the man says, and Isak nods--because Even is a good photographer.

“Yeah…” he replies, uncertainly, and the guy seems to take that as an invitation for conversation.

“You look different without all the layers,” the man says. He gestures around his eyes, and Isak frowns then, remembering the dark circles under his own right now, concealer free.

He has sleep issues, so fucking sue him. He’d say as much, except--

“I think he looks great,” a voice interrupts, and Isak freezes.

He turns, and for the first time in weeks, locks eyes with Even.

 -

_Then_

 “You like it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“That’s perfect,” Even says, standing up from the table. He takes his camera from its case, fiddling around with the lenses or something, before crowing victoriously. “Hang on, let me just--”

“What are you doing?” Isak asks.

He’s still sitting there in front of the mirror, hair a mess, awkwardly sprawled in the chair. It’s not photogenic at all, he thinks.

“Taking your photo,” Even says, excitement colouring his voice. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

“Just sitting here?”

“Just look at yourself,” Even says. “Really take it in.”

Honestly, Isak has already looked his fill at the alien in the glass. So he does as he’s told--but when he looks at the gold of his eyelids, he thinks about Even’s thumbs sweeping the dust from the corners of his eyes. When he looks at the pink of his cheeks, he’s glad he doesn’t really blush, and the pink of his mouth makes him think of Even’s own, stained red after nights drinking cheap wine on the floor of Isak’s bedroom, listening to 90s rap.

He squirms in his seat, and then Even is ready for something else.

“Awesome. Fuck, can we do some standing up?”

“Okay.”

 _It’s your shoot_ , Isak wants to say. _I’m just along for the ride._

He stands, and lets Even move him where he wants. He’s well aware, by now, that he probably looks ridiculous, and that Even isn’t even trying to make him look cool.

That should make the experience feel less weird, but it doesn’t.

“You can tell me to stop at any time, you know?” Even says, and Isak is surprised by the concern on his face.

“No, I’m okay. It’s fine.”

“Okay, so stand here. Just look at the camera.”

“And smile?”

“Not for now. But you can keep talking, that was cool.”

“Okay,” Isak says, and he talks. About last night, and how Eskild was talking about getting a new roommate who actually did the washing up, and how they’d then proceeded to get drunk on £1.50 “Swedish” ciders from the Aldi on Old Kent Road.

When he finally stops, Even is looking at his camera reel with a pensive expression.

“There’s something missing,” he says, finally, and Isak rolls his eyes because that’s the dynamic. That’s what he does in situations like this.

“Missing?”

“Hang on,” Even says, going back to the table.

He has the eyeliner in his hands, and the lipstick, and before Isak knows it Even is applying a sloppy coat of both, before smearing the lipstick all around his face with a quick swipe of his hands.

What the fuck?

“Okay, now rub your eyes so it smudges,” he says, and Isak does, even though he knows he’ll look like a fucking raccoon.

“Like this?”

“Here, let me.”

“Even…”

“Wait!" Even jumps away, excitedly. "Hold that thought. Now look at the camera.”

A click. And another. Even is in his element now, taking photos from all angles as Isak looks back in bewilderment. He’s lunging around all over the place, and Isak might find it comical--make some joke about Even being like a daddy long legs, like he usually would-- except he’s kind of confused and uncomfortable, and he’s starting to wish this was over.

“Do I look stupid?” He asks finally, and there’s one last click before Even straightens up, seemingly coming out of photographer mode.

“What?”

Isak repeats the question, and Even shakes his head like Isak’s asked something completely absurd.

“You could never look stupid,” Even says softly. He looks down at the camera screen, flicking through, and then bites his lip.

“You look like you’ve been _snogging_ someone,” he says, huffing out an amused laugh.

Snogging. It’s his favourite English word, Isak knows. It won’t be long before he starts Norwegianising it and claiming it for his own.

“Let me see,” Isak says, lunging forward, but Even pulls the camera away, taking Isak’s wrist in his free hand.

“It’s a good look on you,” Even says, smiling. Isak feels his breath catch as Even looks at him, clear and intense.

He can’t help it.

His gaze drops down to Even’s lips.

Before he can think better of it, he lunges forwards.

 -

  _Now_

 “Thank you for coming,” Even says, and Isak turns to smile at him.

Of course, he says, and then Even’s gaze catches on his own. His eyes flicker down to Isak’s mouth. “These are for you,” Isak says, and thrusts the slightly sad-looking flowers into Even’s chest.

Even looks surprised, for a moment--like he hadn’t noticed Isak holding them.

“I missed you,” he says, and Isak’s treacherous little heart leaps.

“You too,” Isak says, and Even’s face does something complicated.

Perhaps now is the time to apologise for fucking up, expecting something more. Isak isn’t sure how to even broach the subject though, because mostly he just wishes he hadn’t done it.

They were doing really well, before. Isak had been in love, but he’d never made it weird. And now…

Even looks at him nervously, and Isak doesn’t like it, so he turns back to the photographs, instead.

Here it is, the image of Isak with makeup smudged over his face like he’s been kissed all over the place. The thing that started all of this. It’s the biggest photograph in the whole fucking show, and Isak can’t figure out why.

Photo Isak doesn’t look pleased. He’s leaning towards the camera, a little, like he’s about to reach out and take it from Even’s hands. The expression in his eyes is darker than Isak had realized. His eyes are drawn together, and he remembers feeling indignant and silly, but that’s not what this looks like. He looks dazed, confused. Something that isn’t sexy or funny, but unsure.

Isak doesn’t like it.

“What do you think?” Even says, hovering nervously at Isak’s side. “Be honest.”

“I don’t know,” Isak says, because being honest has not exactly gone well. “Why did you choose that one?”

 -

_Then_

 Even steps back, alarmed, and in that second Isak knows that he’s made a terrible mistake.

“I’m sorry,” Isak says, pulling away. “I didn’t mean--”

“Isak,” Even says. “Wait, hey-- are you--”

And Isak shakes his head, steps away, his face burning in humiliation.

Like _what the fuck, Isak, why the fuck did you do that, you’ve fucking ruined it--_

“Isak,” Even tries again, softly. “Isak, I really care about you--”

“I’m sorry,” Isak says, interrupting. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Even steps forwards, and Isak steps back. Like the most awkward, unwilling game of cat and mouse ever.

“Are we done?” Isak asks, and turns back to the makeup table.

Even searches his eyes even as he hands Isak some wipes, but Isak busies himself erasing the traces of colour from his face.

“I have to go,” Isak says, and Even nods, but there’s something in his expression that is terrifying. Like Even knows the true intensity of thoughts that passed through Isak’s brain, in that one moment when he thought he could have what he wanted.

“It’s chill,” Isak says, though it really isn’t.  “I’ll see you soon, or something.”

  _-_

  _Now_

"It's my favourite," Even says, softly, and he pins Isak down with his gaze, like he's daring him to look away.

The last time he looked at Isak like this, Isak kissed him.

It's not a fun memory.

"Why?" Isak asks, because he's a masochist.

_Getting over Even begins here, doesn't it?_

"Just been looking at it a lot," Even says. He looks painfully earnest, and it hurts a little bit. "I couldn't stop looking at it."

Isak curses his treacherous, treacherous heart.

"I kept thinking about what happened after," Even says, and Isak groans.

"We don't have to talk about that," he says, but Even shakes his head.

"Do you think," Even starts, then he swallows.

He looks down.

He looks back up, opens his mouth, and Isak forgets, for a second, that they're in some hipster gallery.

(All he can think about is Even, and how Even has never looked this shy and awkward in front of him. He did this. He fucked this up.).

Isak braces for _just friends_ , for _it's not you it's me,_ but Even doesn't say either of those things.

"Do you think," he says, "if I promised not to freak out, you might try it again?"

Isak's pretty sure his mouth falls open.

"What?"

Even steps closer, and Isak doesn't move back.

"You surprised me," he says, and his gaze flickers down to Isak's lips. "Do you ever feel like... you want something so much it's hard to believe it's real?"

... what?

"No," Isak says, drawing out the syllable uncertainly. But Even is still looking at his lips, and Isak is looking at his, and... they're standing in front of a wall with Isak's face all over it, and Isak is suddenly, rudely made aware that they're in public, and they're probably about to make a scene.

"Even?" a voice calls from across the room, and before Isak can think about it, Even is taking him by the hand and pulling him into one of the darkly lit corners, through a curtain to a small DJ booth.

Even's flatmate, Jess, startles where she's sat at the turntable, but her surprise quickly turns into something else. She gives Even a smug look before standing up and stretching, faking a yawn.

"Off for a slash," she says. "Don't fuck up my tables."

Isak shakes his head at Even as soon as she leaves.

"Are you fucking with me?" he asks, heart pounding, hope rising up in his belly like butterflies--

And Even kisses him. 

It's not a kiss like before--if that fleeting moment before Even had flinched away even counted as one.

It's a proper kiss: slow, and deep, every inch of Even pressed up against him.

And then it's not so slow anymore.

Now, Even has both of his hands on Isak's face, and his mouth is fierce against Isak's own, and they're kissing like Isak has makeup on his face and they're trying to fuck it all up. 

The music stops, but neither of them notice.

The flowers in Even's arms get crushed between them, and then fall to the ground, bright petals decorating the floor as they kiss, and kiss, and Isak is delirious with it, cannot believe this is happening.

"You look good like this," Even says, when he finally pulls away, and Isak tries and fails to pull a face, too happy to even stand it.

"Do I look like I've been snogging someone?" Isak asks, and Even's face lights up. 

Isak can't believe it. Even is looking at him like he's given him the answer to a question Isak doesn't recall being asked.

"Me," Even says, softly. "Not someone. Me."

And out in the gallery, people are saying Even's name. People are looking at Isak's photograph, talking about the boy in the makeup with the glitter on his cheeks. Eskild has probably arrived with his work friends, and Jess is probably waiting to come back in. 

"Let's stay here a while," Even says, when Isak tries to say this.

Of course, Isak is really, stupidly, balls to the wall in love with him.

So he says yes. Yes. 

Yes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [towonderland72](http://towonderland72.tumblr.com) or at [evakteket.](http://evakteket.tumblr.com)


End file.
